


Promises

by griima (soaringslash)



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (because miklan), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, apparently im not capable of writing them without sylvain awkwardly proposing, dimitri is weak to the smiles of loved ones, felix gets verbally vibechecked, like SUPREMELY weak, the questionable parenting of everyone from faerghus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaringslash/pseuds/griima
Summary: In the past, a comment like that might have gotten him something along the lines of,no, Sylvain, I’m not going out to pick up girls with you.In the present, all Dimitri says is, “Life is for the living,” like the possible innuendo hasn’t even registered in his feral idiot brain.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 251
Collections: FE3H Rarepair Port's All Pairings Challenge





	Promises

“Hey, Dimitri,” Sylvain begins. It seems as good a place to start as any. He is sure to keep his voice soft as he speaks, with no sharp edges that might surprise or frighten.

Maybe that’s what helps, or maybe it’s just the fact that he used his name instead of his title (or Felix’s omnipresent _Boar_ ) but he gets… something. Not a proper reaction, certainly, nor a very encouraging one, but… his words make Dimitri’s entire being start to tremble, and he can’t help but feel a strange spark of hope.

“It’s good to see you again.”

Dimitri’s iris quivers in place, like his eyeball is vibrating in his skull or something. Again, not very encouraging, but if Sylvain was easily discouraged he wouldn’t be here.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he continues gently. He covers that eye with his hand as he says it - as he was taught to do to frightened horses when he was young, as Byleth taught him to do to cats that didn’t want their claws cut when he was a little bit older.

Dimitri’s breathing hitches in his chest for a moment. Sylvain holds his breath, too.

And then Dimitri starts to breathe again. Slowly. Deeply. It is so unlike his usual frantic wheezing. 

Sylvain smiles, and he means it. “It’s been hard for a long time. You’ve done so good, though, Dimitri. You’ve been so, so strong. But it’s time to rest now.”

This time, he’s rewarded with the response of the prince’s dead weight sagging against him.

“There you go,” he cooes. 

If there’s one thing to be thankful for about this war, it’s that it’s made him stronger. Academy Sylvain could not hold up Dimitri’s hulking form, but War Sylvain has no problem gently lowering them both to the floor. His free hand, the one that’s not acting as a blinker, runs through the tangled mess of Dimitri’s hair. He’s careful not to tug.

And Dimitri says the first intelligible word Sylvain has heard from him in a long time: “Please…”

There’s a high, keening note to it that doesn’t sound like War Dimitri. Upon reflection, it doesn’t sound much like Academy Dimitri either.

It’s from something earlier than that. Sylvain, after some thought, recognizes it as a warped echo of their shared childhood. 

Once he figures that out, the rest comes easy.

“Be nice, Glenn,” Sylvain says, and the pleading stops. He laughs - the sound is strained and _honest_ , and it drags itself out of his throat without him meaning to.

The following words sound just as raw. 

“Older brothers, am I right? If he’s mean to you again, tell me. I’ll protect you.”

Dimitri’s voice is strained, too, when he asks, “Protect?”

“That’s right, Dimitri. I promise I’ll protect you.”

Dimitri’s eyelashes flutter against his palm. “You keep your promises,” he says solemnly.

“I do,” Sylvain agrees.

The mess of metal and furs sinks deeper into his arms. When he lifts his hand, he is greeted with a prince’s sleeping face.

He sweeps a snarl of greasy blond locks to the side to press a quick kiss on his forehead.

“Sweet dreams, Mitya.”

\-------

“Ghosts aren’t real, Sylvain!” Felix’s voice raises till it snaps. His face is red with fury.

“They’re real enough!” Sylvain screams back. He and Felix haven’t argued like this in years, but there’s some things not even Sylvain can let slide. “They’re real to him!”

 _they’re real to me,_ Miklan’s phantom touch on his skin and Miklan’s phantom scorn in his ears. Phantom pains, phantom bruises, and the not-so-phantom scars that cover his body and who the hell decides what’s real, anyway?

Sylvain releases a breath and forces his hands from the fists they’ve formed. 

_you’re haunted too, Felix,_ and, _we all are,_ sit unsaid at the tip of his tongue. 

They are the children of Faerghus, the armor they don each morning the same they fear to remove each night. Their hands have been trained for swords, not pens, and the honor of dying was the first of their lessons.

Sylvain wants to say all this and more, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “I know you like to pretend you have a monopoly on these things, but you don’t.”

That catches Felix off-guard. He glares at him, still angry but now more than a little confused, and says, “What?”

“You know...” Sylvain gestures vaguely at nothing.

Felix decides to inform him that no, he doesn’t know, thank you very much, so he should start explaining _right fucking now_.

“The rebellion,” Sylvain says. “Duscur. Dimitri. Glenn.” The last falls from his mouth like gravel.

Even after all these years, that syllable cuts him to the bone. But Felix is swordsman sharp and swordsman quick, and growls, “You weren’t there,” before anyone can see his weakness.

But Sylvain always sees. He wields his smile like the weapon it is, because Sylvain knows things. Because he had lived battered and bruised before Felix ever had reason to lift a sword. Because he had heard the bargain and barter of royal marriage before Ingrid was forced into her first skirt. Because he had dazzled crowds with lies and falsehoods before Dimitri learned to lie about what was left after the Tragedy. 

And he says, “Maybe not, but you weren’t the only one who shared a wall with him.”

He turns, and ignores the muffled snarl behind him, and the savage crack of sword against wood.

\-------

“Hey, Dimitri.”

A month of this, and his greeting is met by Dimitri’s eye sliding over to focus on him.

“Doesn’t it get cold, standing here?”

“Death is cold,” he answers.

Even beneath his cloak, Sylvain can see him shivering. Understandable. 

Sylvain grew up in the northernmost part of the northernmost part of a place that was pretty north to begin with, and even he was feeling kind of chilly. “I guess it is,” he says, and crosses his arms over his chest to help conserve warmth.

“... Are you cold?” Dimitri asks after a beat. He looks almost… shy? Sylvain gets the feeling that the offer of sharing body heat is more for Dimitri’s benefit than his, even if he won’t admit it.

Well, who is he to begrudge a lion his pride? 

“Yeah,” he says as joins his prince in his smelly cocoon of furs. “... Dude, no offense, but you reek,” he adds.

“So do the dead.”

“You and your dead. Why not live a little?”

In the past, a comment like that might have gotten him something along the lines of, _no, Sylvain, I’m not going out to pick up girls with you._

In the present, all Dimitri says is, “Life is for the living,” like the possible innuendo hasn’t even registered in his feral idiot brain.

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“... Of course,” Dimitri answers. There’s a hint of confusion in his voice. 

“There you go,” Sylvain says, which really doesn’t make things any clearer.

“What?”

“I’m gonna share my life with you,” he says with utmost seriousness. Having to fumble around in his pocket is like the cherry on top of this disaster of a conversation, but whatever, he can’t always be the smoothest man on earth.

… It would be nice if it was a little more romantic, though.

But when he pulls out the ring and Dimitri’s whole face lights up red, he changes his mind. Any more romance would be overkill.

“Sylvain-!?” he squeaks, sounding more mouse than lion. “This is-! I can’t-!”

“Sure you can,” Sylvain answers cheerily. Dimitri’s hand is limp with shock as he lifts it.

“But I’m-”

“A beast, dead, a murderer, crazy, yadda yadda yadda. I’ve heard it all before.” He slips the ring on, easy as can be.

His real smile stops all of Dimitri’s ghosts in their tracks.

 _Oh,_ says Glenn or Lambert or Patricia or maybe that’s just him, breathing out that little gasp of sound because he can’t think of anything else to say.

He doesn’t have to. Sylvain always sees, and he laughs (it snatches away Dimitri’s breath again) and places his hand on Dimitri’s chin to close his mouth before he catches any flies. His hands are warm.

Dimitri recovers his voice enough to whisper, “I can’t promise you something like this.”

Sylvain smiles again, and it’s no less true and no less beautiful, but it is a bit more sad. “Not yet, maybe, but we’ll take this one promise at a time. You and I - we’re gonna see the end of this war. That’s my first promise to you.”

“... You keep your promises.”

“I do,” Sylvain affirms.

His lips, too, are warm.


End file.
